


Mare Liberum

by catmanu



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Bar Room Brawl, Bawdy Tunes, Croatian National Football Team, Falling In Love, M/M, Melodrama, More characters to be added, Nautical Shit, Oral Sex, Rowdy Sailors, Tragic Pasts, anita lovren (in flashbacks), davor lovren (in flashbacks), gay sailor bars are a thing because I say so, some vague version of the 19th century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catmanu/pseuds/catmanu
Summary: Mare Liberum.  The Freedom of the Seas.On the ocean, Dejan can escape his past.In the crowded pubs near the docks, he can drown his pain in liquor and men.And he can fall in love again.
Relationships: Dejan Lovren/Mohamed Salah, Dejan Lovren/Šime Vrsaljko
Comments: 33
Kudos: 26





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a few months in the making, based on an idea I got in January. I don't usually write things like this, so it's been a bit slow going as I leave my comfort zone. I hope you enjoy my strange, rainy, fake 19th century.
> 
> **January 2021 Update**
> 
> I want to dedicate this fic to the memory of my dear friend @mincolla. They loved this fic and its themes and thoroughly enjoyed the adventures of slutty, angsty Sailor Dejan. I can only imagine how much they would have cursed me out and keysmashed at me about the ending.
> 
> This one’s for you, señor ⚓

The pub looks unbearably crowded tonight—with languages, with ale spilled, with fights about to break out.

Dejan knows it well—when the barometer drops as fast as it did this morning, anything is possible.

But Dejan’s not there to fight, not this time. He’s heard a certain Egyptian by way of Liverpool is in town.

He turns around before going through the door. No more Ivan and no more Mario. Well, he should have figured. Ivan’s a fine friend. steady as the shore, true as the blue sky, and he’ll never get so drunk he pisses his pants, but. When it comes to men doing certain acts with other men, he doesn’t have the stomach for it.

Strange, that. He’s missing so much.

He’s held the door open for too long, lost in his thoughts as he is, and the winds howling up the street from the water are making every lamp in the place splutter. It won’t make him any friends plunging the place into darkness, so he steps inside and kicks the door closed with his boot.

“Good evening, sinners!”

“ _Dejan!”_

_“DEJAN LOVREN! It’s him!”_

It is good to be loved and wanted here.

*

He stands up on a rickety chair and waves his arms. “Hey, look at me when I’m fucking talking!” he yells.

“You’re always fucking talking, Dejan!” comes a voice from the back of the room, and the place erupts in laughter, but a good kind.

“Alright, except for that fucker in the back, next round’s on me! Let _no one_ say Dejan Lovren isn’t a generous man!”

Only one group of men in the room isn’t giving a hearty cheer at his announcement. He walks over to check them out and as the sagging floor gives into his boots he sees he doesn’t know any of them, hasn’t seen any of them around. They’re hunched around their round wooden table, all dressed in all black, mumbling in Italian. _Well,_ Dejan thinks, _maybe they’re just not happy to see me ‘cause they don’t know me._ He’ll give them a chance. 

“GOOD EVENING, GENTLEMEN!” Dejan howls. So he’s near drunk off his ass already. But he still won’t be starting any fights. “Who wants a drink? On me?”

They look up at him, all at once, giving him unpleasant stare after unpleasant stare, and now he _does_ feel ready to fight until he locks eyes with one of them and he’s nearly thrown off his feet. This one has messy dark curls, tangled like a fishing net, and his eyes are such a beautiful, deep shade of brown that Dejan feels flushed, and then warm, even though a cold breeze blows in every time the door opens.

Dejan tries to fix it. Get back to himself. This place is his, better act like it. “Want a drink, pretty boy?” he says, grinning and winking. Doing one of these things will get him a man, guaranteed. Doing both at once—the man he gets will do _anything_ for him by the end of the evening. “What’s your favorite? I’ll buy you two, because you’re so nice to look at.”

The whole table bursts into sharp laughter.

“You should leave us now,” says the guy next to the staring one, and fuck, Dejan swears his teeth are sharper than normal teeth when he speaks; they look like a shark’s. It gives him the strange urge to cross himself. He hasn’t done that in years. “We don’t want you around.”

If anyone else in the place said that to him, Dejan’s fist would be crashing through his mouth, making as many teeth as possible rain down onto the table. But this whole group is making the wood floor feel like it’s rocking under Dejan’s feet, buckling under his weight. The Atlantic at its stormiest is more steady than this floor feels.

He stares at each of them one last time. Their eyes are all narrowed at him, and one of them has a strange patch of skin on his cheeks that Dejan suddenly thinks looks just like a fish’s scales. He wonders who they are and what game they’re playing here. He’s met many a criminal since he first set foot on a ship. Maybe even been one himself a time or two. That’s not what these men are about. 

“Did you hear him?” asks the man with the scaly face. “He told you to fuck off. It is for your own good.” He smiles, showing teeth so stained they look green under the soft light of the oil lamps.

“Yeah? It’d be my pleasure. HEY!” Dejan howls at the man keeping bar. He’s new here; Dejan doesn’t know his name yet, but he will. “ _Two_ drinks for everyone _but_ this table. On me.”

He thinks for a moment about all the money he’s running out of, but then the door bursts open and nearly the entire crew of the _Anfield_ stumbles in, and his eyes, and his poor old heart, are too busy looking for a head of thick, black curls in the crowd to think any further about money or the Italians muttering around their round table.

*

It’s later, much later, and Dejan is sitting at the bar with a drunk Mo giggling helplessly into his shoulder.

“You have a little too much to drink and the truth comes out, hey, Mo? You are in love with me, aren’t you, Mo?”

“I wouldn’t say _that,_ Dejan.” Dejan listens to how Mo slurs his once-unfamiliar name. _Deyyyyyyyyan_. Well, it’s familiar to him now.

“Oh, you wouldn’t? Well, you just did.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. You just did. You said, _I love you, Deyyyyyyyyan Lovren. You are the captain of my heart. You steer it through sun and moon, calm and storm.”_

“Maybe that first part. But that last part, I would never say such a thing.”

“Well, maybe I wish you would.” Dejan turns and kisses him on the lips. God, but he can’t wait to rent a room upstairs later and bury his cock inside his boy. It’s been longer than he’d like, and no one else he’s met recently has been the kind of man he wants. “Maybe I’m in love with _you_ , Mo, can you believe that?

“I am not so sure a man like you could fall in love.”

Dejan’s stomach twists. _I can, more than you know. I did, once._ He takes a big drink from his mug of ale. “Oh, but I can. Let me prove it to you. I will sing a song just for you. Think of me as a siren, luring you to my rocks.”

He clears his throat and sings that old tune he learned in his years on the _Anfield._ But he changes the words a little, to suit his needs.

_“What do you do with a drunk Mo Salah,_

_What do you do with a drunk Mo Salah,_

_What do you do with a drunk Mo Salah,_

_Early in the morning?_

Ox laughs behind him. It’s so good to see his men from the _Anfield,_ every single one of them. “…’s a good one, Dej,” he says, hitting Dejan on the back as he passes by. Dejan misses the _Anfield._ Life was better, then.

He clears his throat and continues.

“ _Fuck him in the arse until he’s sober,_

_Suck his pretty cock until he’s—”_

Someone’s elbow digs into his shoulder, and he jumps. “Hey, fuck off. I’m singing to my boy—” 

The intruder slips around to face him, and Dejan nearly slides off his stool in surprise. It’s the man from before, the staring one with the deep, dark eyes. Up close, those eyes look a little sleepy, but no less intense for that.

“I like your song,” he says, smirking. “But I would also like those drinks you promised.”

In this room of languages, in his head that can speak many, Dejan understands each of the stranger’s words so fully, and yet it still takes him a moment to realize the stranger has spoken to him in his native tongue.

“You’re Croatian?” he asks.

“Yes, I am. From Zadar, originally. I’m with an Italian crew these days, so it is nice to meet someone from home.”

Dejan isn’t sure where _home_ is anymore. Everything he’d thought was _home_ is now gone, but all the liquor warming his insides is making it hard for him to want to remember this sadness. “How’d you know where I’m from?”

“Asked one of your boy’s friends.” The stranger grins and the grin softens and warms his stare. He smells—it’s the strangest thing, but he smells of salt and of seaweed. Not the way the sea rests on a man’s hands and in the folds of his clothes, but the pure ocean. It is making the hairs on Dejan’s arms stand on end. He doesn’t like it, but there’s nothing _not_ to like about it, so he doesn’t understand. He lets his eyes wander across the stranger’s face, trying to memorize it in case the man runs into him somewhere else and tries to start trouble. “So are you still buying drinks?”

“Not for you, Mr. Zadar. Missed that chance when your friend told me to fuck off.” Mo’s breath is warm on his arm. He gets like this when he’s had too much—so soft, so sleepy. Dejan’s just about ready to buy one more round for the pub and then take him upstairs for the night. 

“But you called me pretty.” The stranger stretches out a long finger and rests it on Dejan’s lips. “Open up—you have a little drop of ale—don’t waste it.”

He grins again as he feeds Dejan the booze that’s spilled down his face and Dejan is relieved to see his teeth aren’t sharklike, but God, the mix of his eyes and smile and the finger tracing over the soft skin on the inside of Dejan’s lips is making his cock twitch with need against his pants. Dejan thinks, suddenly, wildly, of taking them both back to his room tonight—fucking deep into Mo’s hot mouth while sucking this strange man’s fingers. Dejan feels like the stranger would laugh the whole time. 

“Hey, who’s this?” Mo asks.

The stranger leans back and scratches his chest, pulling the collar of his shirt down far as he does. Dejan sees what looks like the top of a cross tattooed on the man’s skin. He’s comforted by this. _A man of God, hmmm?_ Well, someone like that probably couldn’t do too much harm to anyone.

“Just saying hello,” the stranger says. He turns back to Dejan. “You should take him and put him to sleep. What’s your name?”

“Dejan.”

“A nice name. I knew a Dejan or two growing up in Zadar.”

“And what’s yours?”

The stranger doesn’t offer it. He laughs and puts his lips to Dejan’s ear.

“You really should take this sweet boy upstairs before he falls asleep,” he whispers. “If you want to buy me that drink sometime…you’ll be able to find me.”

And he’s gone, walking back to the round table on slender legs that stumble just a bit.

Dejan can’t tell whether he wants to grab the stranger by the curls and drag him upstairs to his bed, or hope to never see him again. “Hey, Ox. Ox!” he yells toward a table of his men from the _Anfield._

“Yes, Dej? Asking if we want another round, are you?”

“Not yet. Do you know anything about that table over there?” He nods his head in the direction of the Italians.

“Oh, them? Yeah, a bit. They’re here in town on the _Neroverdi._ ”

“Never heard of it,” Dejan says.

“They’re docked right to the _Anfield_. They seem unsavory, you know? Not so friendly. Between you and me, I wish they weren’t sitting in here with us.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. Hey,” he says, turning back to the man tending bar, “one more round for everyone, alright? And I’ll take a room upstairs.”

“We have some rooms with bunks,” the man says. Someone in the back has whipped out a fiddle, and people are starting to bang their fists on the tables. Everyone except those miserable fucks from the _Neroverdi._ “But I’ll guess you’re looking for just one bed tonight.”

*

Mo is snoring loud enough to wake up a pharaoh. Oh…That one’s funny, that one’s fucking funny. He’ll have to tell his boy that one in the morning.

From the sound of the wind outside Dejan doubts they’ll be leaving the city tomorrow. It’s howling like something…like a mourning woman. _Like him when he’d heard news of Davor_ …He tightens his elbow around the Egyptian sleeping in its crook and kisses his curls, eyes still closed but cock getting hard. He won’t be needing much rest tonight; this wind will bring a gale that’ll keep the _Vatreni_ stranded in the city an extra day for sure. Captain Dalić is bold and fearless, but not stupid. Maybe he’ll wake Mo up and demand his mouth again.

This city is always humid, but suddenly there is a new feeling in the air…something tickling his skin, each hair on his arms standing up. It’s not a bad feeling, but—

Something is telling him not to open his eyes. Not to wake Mo up. Not to move at all.

Just then he hears a voice in his ear, singing a song he hasn’t heard since—well, fuck. His mother used to sing it for him and Davor, years and years and years ago when putting them to sleep. This voice sounds nothing like his mother’s.

It is low, a man’s voice, but it is soft and sweet, and somehow leaves a taste in his mouth like fruit.

_You are a rosy orange!_

_Were you born on an orange tree?_

_No, I was not born on an orange tree,_

_but my dearest mother bore me._

_I was cradled in the beech tree._

_Stormy winds rocked me, from the—_

“Who’s there?” he calls out. Mo mumbles something, warm against his bare chest, and stirs in his sleep.

He hears a soft laugh in response and fuck, fuck not moving, fuck trying to stay still. He crosses himself before he opens his eyes. _Help me, God, don’t let it end like this! I know I’ve sinned, I know I’ve gone against you, but there’s a demon here I swear I’ll—I’ll—_

He opens his eyes and the room is exactly as it had been before.

He springs out of bed and checks behind the curtains and opens the tiny wardrobe. Of course, there’s no one there.

The window is cracked open and the winds whip the ends of the long curtains against the wall. There’s a rhythm to the way they hit the plaster. Like a clock ticking, like footsteps coming toward the room. He stays awake till morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is a real song! It is called "Rumena Si," and you can listen to a version of it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilKpm2LEf2s). I don't know about you all, but I wouldn't want to hear it in my room late at night, beautiful as it is.


	2. II

Captain Dalić has gathered them all on the _Vatreni_ , the angry winds in his black hair making him look like a pirate king as he stands there on the main deck. As they’d all figured, they’re not heading out today. 

“Get comfortable,” he tells them all. “Go to church. Pray that this storm will pass us by so we can make it back home soon. Don’t get into any trouble or, so help me God, I will kill you all myself.”

“All talk,” Luka mumbles, the wind whipping his hair into his mouth as he speaks. He spits it out. “We know he thinks we’re the best crew he’s ever had aboard the _Vatreni_.”

“Hey, Lovren!” Dalić calls.

“He thinks _some_ of us are the best crew,” Čarli smirks, elbowing Dejan in the ribs.

“Fuck _off_ ,” Dejan snaps, resisting the urge to elbow him back right off the dock.

“Lovren, are you listening to me? I heard you were causing trouble last night.”

“Heard from who, Captain Dalić?” He glares at each of his friends in turn. 

“Don’t look at me,” Ivan says. “I was with Mario the whole night.”

“Don’t look at me, either,” Mario says. “I was too busy getting fucked and sucked. But _he_ wasn’t.” He grins and slaps Ivan on the back. “Little prude.”

“Hey! I kept watch for you while you went off into the—"

Captain Dalić clears his throat. Dejan tries to get them back on topic. After all, he’s being accused. And for once in his cursed fucking life, he didn’t actually do anything wrong.

“I said, heard from who, Captain? I didn’t do a thing.”

“That’s not what I hear. You stirred up some _animosity_ with some nasty Italians.”

“Well, fuck. I didn’t do anything of the sort. Who fucking told?”

“Rumors get around, Lovren.” Captain Dalić is shorter than Dejan, but when he takes a step closer, getting into his face, Dejan feels small, and he can’t stand the feeling. “I made it clear that I don’t have that kind of crew. You all drink and whore around, that’s a sailor’s right after so long at sea. But we don’t look for fights. We don’t…” Dejan knows what he’s going to say next. “We don’t beat men to a pulp because they do something we don’t like. Isn’t that right?”

A low fucking blow.

Captain Dalić tosses his hair out of his face. “Now off with you all. Enjoy the free time.”

“Well, _he’s_ got something up his ass,” Čarli says as they walk away from the _Vatreni_ , the wind stinging their faces. “And taking it out on Dej as usual.”

Dejan only half-listens to his friends discussing their plans for the morning. He’s not sure what to do with his days anymore. In the past, when they were in port, he’d sit and write long letters to Davor and to Anita. Just thinking about this makes a laugh so bitter that it hurts bubble up in his throat. He imagines Anita tearing up any letter of his, cackling with whatever man she’s taken up with now as she tosses the bits into the fire, telling their little ones— _his_ little ones _—_ that it’s from their good-for-nothing scum of a father who’d be better off dead.

He imagines writing to Davor and then—and then what? Pray for an angel to come down and give him a hearty _Fuck You_ and a kick in the balls before carrying the letter away to heaven? Because surely that’s where Davor must be. Dejan won’t let himself think anything else. 

He scratches his head and thinks. Ivan and Luka have gone to find someone to patch up the hole in Luka’s boot. Dejan isn’t sure why that errand needs two people, but he supposes it’s none of his business. Mario’s gone off to some other pub. Dejan could join him, but no, he shouldn’t spend all day drinking. That’s led to trouble for him before, and Captain Dalić already has his eye on him. Čarli has gone to—wait—where _has_ he gone? 

While standing around imagining writing letters to people who are dead and who are gone, his friends have all left him.

Well...fuck. Maybe he _will_ go somewhere to drink, to drink until he finds a man who’s looking at him funny, then follow him out and take him behind the pub and beat him till he can’t look at _anyone_ funny anymore. He could do that. But then he’d have to run, and leave the _Vatreni_ behind, and he’s already made many promises to God that he’ll never walk that old path again.

So he’ll just go to drink.

He stomps down the pier but before he can feel any worse, he sees something strange out of the corner of his eye. There’s an outcropping of smooth rocks next to the pier--he’s seen it before and never given it much thought, but there’s a person sitting on one of the rocks and that person has curly, dark hair and, well, fuck--it’s the man from the _Neroverdi_ , the one who’d said he came from Zadar. The one that he had, for a moment, _wanted._

The man has his boots and socks off and his pants rolled up around his pale knees. He’s got his feet in the water, submerged up to his ankles. Dejan is a bit impressed. The water is cold at this time of year, and the winds tearing up the streets and around the corners aren’t making it any warmer. 

“Hey,” Dejan says, scrambling over the rocks, and then because the man doesn’t seem to hear and the seagulls are screeching even louder than the wind, he shouts it. “Hey!”

The man turns, and Dejan is startled. Last night in the pub--there’d been something odd about him, hadn’t there? But here, in the light of day, cloudy though it is, his smile is bright and cheery, and his eyes seem to shine as Dejan sits down next to him.

The wind’s got his curls even more wild-looking than they had been in the pub, and the humidity has them sticking to his forehead. Dejan resists the urge to brush them back. _Slow it down, Dejan,_ he tells himself. _You don’t even know his name. Behave._

“We didn’t get off to the best start last night, Mr. Zadar,” Dejan says. “That’s not how I like to do things. Shall we try again, huh?”

“You were very drunk,” the stranger says, and he winks. “And you clearly had your friend on your mind. So you're forgiven.”

“Wasn’t here for your forgiveness,” Dejan says. “I just want to make amends, and start over. I’m Dejan.” He holds out his hand.

The stranger just stares at it. “I remember your name, Dejan.”

“Well, I’ll be _damned_ , Mr. Zadar. You’re supposed to _introduce_ yourself to me, not just stare at my hand.”

“Oh, is that how it works? I’d forgotten,” the stranger says, winking again. He looks like he’s about to laugh in Dejan’s face, but instead, he reaches out to shake his hand. He has a strong grip, Dejan notices, and his cock twitches a little at the thought of this hand wrapping around it. “Anyway, I’m Šime.”

“Šime,” Dejan says. He can’t help himself. He reaches out and brushes the sloppy curls off Šime the stranger’s forehead. “Well, Šime. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m not sure if it is yet.”

“Well, I hope you’ll figure it out soon.” Šime the stranger raises his eyebrows. “I don’t like to wonder things for too long.”

“Neither do I,” Dejan says. “But I’m here wondering something right now. Why the hell do you have your feet in this freezing fucking water?”

“I love the water,” Šime the stranger says. This does not answer Dejan’s question. “I’ve been on it since I was...For a long time.”

“So have we all,” Dejan sighs. “Hey, ever been on any ships other than the _Neroverdi?_ I wonder if you know any old friends of mine.” _Or if you’ve heard of me._

“Yeah, I spent a year aboard _Il Grifone—_ ” Šime’s eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me so many questions, Dejan?” 

“Trying to get to know you. Fuck, is that so strange?” He stands up. Enough of this shit, he thinks. He’s experienced more than his fair share of bullshit from other people today, and it’s not even noon. “You know what..fuck you. I’m just trying to get to _know_ you.”

Šime’s _very_ pretty lips part and Dejan thinks he looks like he feels _bad_ , but he’s past being able to tolerate this guy, and he’s finally thought of somewhere to go. He stands up and climbs back over the wet rocks, turning his back on the man still sitting there with his feet in the water.

Maybe there is no mystery about Šime the stranger, Dejan thinks. Maybe he’s not odd at all. Maybe he’s just a bit of a fucking asshole.


	3. III

His feet can find the old church even with his eyes closed. Up the street, turn, up another street that winds up the side of the hill, turn, up another hill, and there’s the church on the far corner across the way, looking older every year but still standing.

Dejan opens the heavy door and feels changed as soon as he steps inside. His anger slips away; he feels it slide off his shoulders, crumple to the ground like clothes. He slumps down into one of the pews at the back and rests his head on the bench in front of him. The scent of incense in the place is strong today, and a few rows up, someone is praying softly.

Dejan knows these prayers. He was good as a child. He went to church and brought Davor with him. He helped Davor look nice before they went—comb his hair, fix his shirt, wipe any dirt off his face—so their mother didn’t have to.  _ God couldn’t have given you a better brother _ , the old women would always tell Davor when the two of them walked into church together. And, to their mother,  _ You must feel so blessed to have these two boys.  _

At night he gets no rest. He sleeps, of course, but when in port he sleeps weighed down by ale, exhausted by men, and on board the  _ Vatreni _ Domo tosses and turns in the bunk above him all night, and Mario’s snores get worse by the month.

Here, in the gloom, with the old prayers in his ears and his anger pooled on the floor like clothes he won’t have to put on again for a while…here he can rest.

*

_ Anita. Her face ugly with rage, shoving their children into the other room and slamming the door. _

_ Let me see my children, Anita. Fucking around with another man, you—you should lose the right to take care of them. I don’t want a whore—it’s not even the right word, but he’s hurt and he wants to hurt—raising my children.  _

_ Oh, Dejan. You know what? It doesn’t matter that I’m with another man. You can say what you will. No, no, go ahead, scream all you like about the law and what’s right and—and—He gives me what I need. What have you ever given me? _

_ She looks like a witch, a sorceress, her black hair falling around her shoulders, her eyes so angry it’s somehow changed their shape. _

_ I’ve tried to give you everything. His lie falls flat on the floor. And you’ve given me hell for it, Anita.  _

_ She laughs and even that sounds evil; it goes with the changed shape of her eyes. Dejan...You can’t give me what I need. You can’t be a good man—no, it isn’t that you can’t, it’s that you don’t want to. _

_ What you need? I—I gave you two children, Anita. What money I earn is for you, is for the family. _

_ Seasickness—that’s what he feels standing here on land. _

_ Oh, oh. So you’re a good father? While you’re at sea with those other filthy men? A good husband, when you’re home, and you look at me so strangely? Like you wish I had a cock for you to suck? _

_ Anita. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking ab— _

_ Nights shoving her onto her hands and knees so he can imagine she’s anyone else. She’s any sweet man, any of the ones he’s dreamed of or met, a sweet man who will love his past and his present, a sweet, beautiful man he can take care of till the day he dies. _

_ You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. _

_ Oh, I don’t, Dejan? Isn’t that why people like you get on a boat and go off someplace for weeks or months? It’s either men or women. But I see how you look at women. You don’t. _

_ His chest fills with anger till it overflows into his heart. His heart pumps so fast he can barely see. What is another death to him? He could easily just—take her and—just one more fucking death. Just one more in a life ruled by it. _

_ But he can’t. He has tried to love Anita. He has...he’s done his pathetic best. He once did really love her, when he was much younger. He thought she was beautiful, sharp and funny. She kept his mind moving fast. And then he realized it was...just all wrong. He couldn’t. And he can’t— _

_ He kicks over the table and she jumps back, screaming. Dishes shatter. Their little ones peek out the door, the oldest wrapping her arm around her brother. Just like he would have— _

_ Get out. Anita’s face is cold, hard iron. Get out. You’ll wish you were dead if I ever have to see your face again. _

_ But— _

_ Anita is brave, that’s the thing. She is braver than he is. _

_ Get out. Now she has a long, jagged piece of a broken dish in her hand. He feels the floor sag and roll underneath him. He is seasick.  _

_ Get out, you—you fucking monster. Get OUT! _

*

He jumps in his seat and looks up into the gloom of the little church. The same person is still praying. The wind whistles outside, but quietly, the church’s walls taking in most of the sound and keeping it out.

Sometimes, for him, this is what rest is.

He places his head back down on the pew in front of him.  _ Please _ , he tells his mind.  _ Don’t make me see that again. _

*

_ They shared the same bed, then the same room, all Davor’s life. He’d seen Davor at his most private moments. He’d kill anyone who touched him or hurt him. He first thought that when he was still quite young, and it was strange. Who would try to hurt his sweet brother? Why would he want to kill anyone? And yet the thought made him feel better. Stronger. _

_ He was older than Davor, so he tried to teach him all he knew about the world, as a brother should. How to tell right from wrong. When to listen to the rules and when to go your own way. What to judge and what to understand. And when one winter night he whispered to Davor through the cold air in the room, that he had to confess—that he’d realized he was made wrong, that God made him all wrong, that he dreamed about men at night with thick, dark curls and faces like angels—he was nearly in tears—Davor showed him he’d understood all Dejan had taught him. _

_ It’s alright with me, Dejan. I won’t tell anyone. _

_ And how could you be all wrong, when you’re so good to me?  _

_ Maybe what they say in church, in the Bible, is wrong. See, now you have a secret from me too. _

_ I love you, Dejan. _

_ I love you too, Davor. _

_ The first time Davor coughed and coughed till blood came out of his mouth—just a trickle of it but—Dejan knew everything would change. He had never expected...an enemy he couldn’t hurt back. _

_ Davor died when he was somewhere on the North Sea on the Anfield. _

_ No man deserves that, no. No one deserves to be drinking away the cold winds of the North Sea at night, singing the depraved Scottish songs Robbo shared with them all, sneaking his beautiful Egyptian underneath the sheets in his bunk and siding his cock into his heat—doing all that while the person they love most dies, is buried, is gone. _

_ Did he ask for me, at the end? _

_ Yes. Of course he did, Dejan. Of course he asked for you. _

_ Sometimes he imagines when he closes his eyes on the nights when he’s all alone—A mouthful of blood calling out his name. _

*

A hand lands on his shoulder. His heart lurches. “Davor?”

“Who? No. It’s me.” 

Dejan recognizes that voice. He turns around and there’s that fucker. Whatever the hell his name is. Šime. 

“Fu—” He bites it back. They  _ are  _ in church.. “What are you doing here? You followed me?”

Šime smiles. “I think...I think you wish I followed you.”

“Why the hell would I wa—” Dejan manages to swallow the rest of his words. It’s a fucking miracle. This palace must really be holy. “Never mind.”

Šime is still smiling. His eyes are shining in the dim light, and Dejan feels a strange feeling as he looks into them. He tries to name the feeling, but he doesn’t think he can. He’s very warm on the inside. He feels like he wants to move, squirm in the seat like he’s a kid. But even  _ that  _ somehow feels...nice.

Šime takes a seat in the pew in front of Dejan. “I try to find a place to pray whenever we’re in port,” he says softly.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmm,” Šime says “I need it. There are many things I have to ask for.”

“I don’t ask for much,” Dejan says, leaning forward so he can whisper with Šime still being able to hear. “I come here to try to forget.”

“Does it work?”

Dejan hates to say it out loud, or even think it, but, “No.”

Šime sighs. “I’m not surprised. It is the same for me. I don’t ask for much, but what I want hasn’t happened yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Dejan says. In—how long has it been? Not too long—he’s gone from thinking Šime is a bit of a fucking asshole to feeling sorry for the guy. He knows what it’s like to have your prayers go unanswered.

“It’s alright, Dejan,” Šime says. “Maybe someday.”

And he bows his head and begins to pray. 

His lips move almost silently over the words. But even when he whispers he sounds like he’s singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, write a flashback chapter all in italics with no quotation marks? I've never done that before 🙄🙄
> 
> That's it for now. Subscribe if you enjoyed it, so you don't miss an update ⚓⚓


	4. IV

“It makes me nervous to look at you,” Dejan says to Šime once they’re back out in the howling wind. “Look at this.” He picks up one of Šime’s arms and wiggles it. “See? More meat on your bones...That’s what you need.”

“Oh, I’m quite strong,” Šime says. “I don’t think you need to worry about me.”

“Couldn’t hear you over this fucking wind,” Dejan says, grinning at him. He keeps his hand wrapped around the bony little arm. “Could you let me get us something to eat? I was a bit of an asshole to you before, yeah? It’s the least I can do.” 

“Well, alright,” Šime says. “But only if you’re paying.” A gust of wind blows his sloppy curls in front of his eyes, but not before Dejan sees his little wink.

“Who do you take me for, hmmm? Course I’m paying,” Dejan says. “I seem to remember offering you a drink and then not following through on that promise.”

“I remember that too.”

“And Dejan Lovren  _ always  _ keeps his promises.”

He  _ wishes  _ that were true. But now’s not the time to drown himself in the past. He’s just come from doing that, and now he has a beautiful man next to him who he’d like to get to know better.

He steers Šime into a little inn on the next block. He knows them all well there, and they know him, and once he’s got Šime seated at a little table in the corner, he greets Carolina at the counter and gets two big bowls of fresh cod stew and some bread, still warm from the oven. Šime’s got his spoon in the bowl before Dejan can even sit down, and he sits and watches the guy devour half the bowl of stew before he reaches out and gently moves his arm away.

“Alright,” he says. “Here goes. Third time. I’m Dejan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Šime grins and brushes his hair back. In the lamplight, with nothing else to distract him and no alcohol making his mouth run, Dejan is finding that looking into his eyes makes it hard to breathe.

“Šime,” Šime says. “And the pleasure is mine.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?”

“You’ve bought me food, and you have a nice smile,” Šime says. He runs his thumb over Dejan’s lips and Dejan feels like he’s about to fall off his chair. “When you smile, you look so happy. I like it.”

“I’ve not known too much happiness lately,” Dejan admits. 

Šime, who he’s known for what—a day? looks at him with such honest concern in his eyes. “Why’s that?”

“Well—there’s my brother, Davor. He died of consumption while I was at sea.”

“I’ve seen too many men go that way,” Šime sighs. “Too much of that and too much drowning. There’s so much sadness that can happen out on the ocean, don’t you think? So much—” He swallows. “Sorry, Dejan. Keep going.”

Dejan wonders what’s happened in this guy’s life. “I loved him.”

Šime nods. God, Dejan thinks. His eyes are so sleepy, but he looks at everything so intensely. Dejan can’t keep his eyes off of him, and that feeling he’s having, of having a hard time breathing, won’t go away.

“And my wife slept with another man and told me to never come back,” Dejan continues. “So now I’ve got no home to go to. When the  _ Vatreni _ ’s back in Croatia, my friends go off to their people back home, and where do I go? All I’ve got is my bunk.” He shrugs. He could go on. He could tell Šime more. He could tell him about...Sergio.

He won’t.

Šime brushes his curls out of his eyes again and reaches across the table, his hand out.

“Come on,” he says, when Dejan doesn’t do anything. “Are you too shy to hold my hand? You don’t seem like you would be too shy to do something. You were sitting in the pub singing about fucking your friend, no? So…” He wiggles his fingers.

Dejan laces his fingers through Šime’s. His hand is unexpectedly cold, but who cares, really? There’s a fire in the fireplace and the inn’s walls are solid enough so that no wind blows through any cracks. He’s warm enough and he’s holding Šime’s hand.

“I am sorry to hear about your problems, Dejan,” Šime says. “You didn’t deserve all of that.”

Šime’s sleepy eyes are so soft, so serious, and Dejan sees the reflection of the firelight dancing in their dark center. 

And then Šime sticks his tongue out.

“What was that?” Dejan asks.

“What was what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes you did.” He starts tickling Šime’s palm. Šime twitches a little. “Do it again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Šime says, no expression at all on his face, and suddenly his tongue’s out again.

Dejan does it right back to him, and Šime snorts. And then they’re both staring at each other with their tongues out, laughing, and Dejan thinks he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as Šime looks right now.

“Fuck. Who  _ are  _ you, anyway?”

“I am Šime.”

“ _Fuck!_ I mean, tell me more about you.”

“I’m from Zadar.”

Dejan kicks him under the table. “I  _ know  _ that. I want to know something else about you.”

Šime shrugs and bites a big chunk out of the fresh bread. “I was born in Zadar. I’ve been at sea a long time. For most of my life. It’s all I have known, really.” He reaches underneath his shirt and pulls out a necklace. An anchor, on a little chain. “So I wear this.”

“Mmm. Looks nice.” Dejan spoons some more stew into his mouth so he can have a moment to look more at Šime without talking. He has earrings in both ears, and his hands and what Dejan can see of his arms are covered in tattoos. Dejan puts his spoon down and takes Šime’s arm, running his fingers down his pale skin.

“You must do this to every man you meet,” Šime breathes, leaning forward in his seat.

“Well, maybe. I do have my tricks…but these are beautiful, and I mean every word.”

“Thank you. I have many more underneath my shirt.” Šime winks again, and Dejan thinks of that cross peeking out at him in the pub.  _ Oh, I bet you do.  _ It looks like Šime has some tricks, too.

“Want to see mine, pretty thing?” Dejan asks, lowering his voice.

Šime licks his lips, and fuck. Dejan’s getting hard. He rolls his sleeves up as far as they’ll go.

“You have a nail on your arm?”

“Yeah. It’s a crucifixion nail, right? To remind myself that…..suffering ultimately can be a reward. Maybe.”

“Hmm,” Šime says. “And what do you do when you want to…?” He pretends to jerk himself off. “So you like imagining that nail stabbing right through your balls?”

Dejan is on fire. He’s  _ on fire _ . He’s so hard he feels like he could choke on how much he  _ wants.  _ And he’s just known Šime for a day. Even for him this is confusing, it’s strange.

“I’ve never thought of that,” he manages. “You’re thinking about my balls?”

“Yes.”

“The pretty thing is a sick little fuck.”

Šime raises his eyebrows and now his soft, sleepy eyes are  _ alive.  _ “There is so much you don’t know about me yet, Dejan.”

Dejan leans in close to Šime, staring at his full lips. They would be amazing wrapped around his cock, he thinks. They’d be warm and wet, and fuck, would they know how to suck. He lets his eyes wander back up to Šime’s. He hopes Šime can tell what he’s thinking about him.

The guy’s so odd, maybe he  _ can. _

“And there’s a lot you don’t know about  _ me,”  _ Dejan says, and Šime grins and shows teeth, and takes Dejan’s hand again.

“You could tell me if you’d like,” he says.

Dejan shakes his head. “I’d much rather look at you.” And so he does.

Yes, he thinks. There’s a  _ lot  _ this Šime doesn’t know. 


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some violence in this chapter, and some mentions of blood, but nothing too graphic or gory. If only I could have set this in Kyiv for authenticity! but I needed a seaport town, which Kyiv is not.
> 
> This is probably the final flashback chapter. After this, the plot of the story will pick up and see that Alternate Universe—Supernatural Elements tag? Yeah, that’ll start happening too.

_When he first sees the Anfield rising up before him again, the first time after Anita sent him away with her threat ringing in his ears, he thinks maybe this is the only home he’ll ever have again. He’ll grow old on this ship, become captain, maybe. His boots will know every dip in the deck, his ears will understand the meaning of every creak of the sails, and in the quiet of the captain’s quarters he’ll have whatever man he likes._

_Fuck Anita. In the end it’ll be him who gets to live the life he wants, and she’ll be stuck behind on land with all her days the same as the one before._

_But Dejan feels as though his friends aboard the Anfield are treating him differently. He thinks they’re being careful with him. Maybe they’ve heard what happened. Careful? With him? The man who’s already been hurt in the worst ways a man can be hurt? It’s a joke, and he thinks he should be angry._

_Or he should just clear the air._

_He doesn’t know why he says this out loud but he does one day, to Sadio, leaning on the rail with him as the spray off the waves leaves their faces sticky._

_Anita fucked another man, he says, and he spits off the deck. It’s all over._

_Yeah? Hmm. Sadio doesn’t say, oh, we already knew. He waits a moment. Maybe it’s for the best, huh, Dej? You weren’t happy, anyway. We all knew you weren’t happy._

_And he claps Dejan on the shoulder. Be strong, Dej._

_This is the first time anyone’s done that to him in a while, touched him like that in a while, and it’s out of pity._

_But life on the Anfield goes on. The same pounding feet to the same music, the same laughter and joking with Captain Klopp. Breathing into Mo’s soft curls below deck and curling around him in his bunk at night, one hand over his mouth and the other around his cock. And in port Dejan still drinks and keeps the ale flowing for his friends and kicks over chairs and starts fights but nothing too bad, sure, he fights more now than he used to and well, he used to fight a fair bit, but who doesn’t love a man whose hands are beat-up from a fight or two? And in port he fucks Mo or he fucks someone else and one time too many he wakes up with a headache like the devil and two men in his bed._

_He drinks till he forgets Anita and the kids he’ll never see again and Davor and then he drinks and remembers them anyway._

_And then it gets worse._

_Klopp is patient. He says, Dejan, what are you starting fights for? All the time you’re starting fights. What have these poor fellows done to you?_

_I can’t keep you around here if you—I’m afraid one day you’ll hurt the wrong person, and we’ll have a problem on our hands. You understand me, don’t you?_

_Dejan respects his captain. He promises he’ll stop. He starts going to church and whispering into the darkness to Davor like a prayer. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I wasn’t there._

_It helps. And then it doesn’t help._

_And then it gets worse._

_It happens in Hamburg._

_There’s a whole boatload of Spaniards in port strutting around in crisp white uniforms like they own the whole city. And they don’t own shit, that’s the thing. They’re no more German than Dejan is. He hates them at first glance. They make his fingers curl and his scabbed knuckles pulse. But he’s promised. He’s promised, he’s promised, he’s promised. And he’s broken promises to Anita and Davor so he won’t break any more, not ever again. There still is good in him. If he had it once, it’s got to still be in him somewhere._

_They’re down at the pub and Dejan is four drinks deep. He feels fine, he feels great. He could go for a few more drinks. He orders another round for the entire crew of the Anfield and tells them all he loves them._

_He’s loud. He’s always been loud. And he’s always moved around a lot and waved his arms and grabbed his boys—he just has a lot to say. Everyone loves him for this, they do. But he’s seemed to catch the attention of some of the Spaniards._

_There’s one in particular who Dejan’s got his eye on. He’s tall and commanding, with hair that’s light brown, almost red, long enough to touch his shoulders. He’s covered in tattoos—more than Dejan’s got, even, and on his knuckles where Dejan’s got scars, this fuck’s got letters spelling out something Dejan can’t see. When he notices Dejan staring at him, his lips turn up into a little smirk and he whispers something to the white-uniformed asshole next to him._

_It takes all Dejan has in him not to go over and find out what he’s staring at. Just what the fuck he thinks he has the right to whisper about. But he’s promised, he’s promised. So he grips the handle of his mug of ale tight, and with his other hand he pulls Mo’s curls till the poor guy squirms a little._

_Dej, you’ve promised, Mo says. Don’t be like this. You’ve promised._

_A man can’t pull his sweet boy’s hair if he wants to? Spoiled thing, huh? You can have it your way. I’ll do this instead._

_He tilts Mo’s chin up and kisses him wet and deep like they’re alone. They might as well be. The Anfield guys have seen this all so many times they’re used to it, other than a hearty clap on the back and a Make your claim, mate! from Milly. Dejan has no idea what the Spanish asshole wants, but in case he’s after Mo, well, he won’t be for much longer._

_He pulls away and there’s the guy. Right there next to them._

_Good evening, he says to Mo. Would you like to join my friends and me over at our table?_

_Mo doesn’t seem bothered. No, thank you. I don’t usually drink, but thank you, it was nice to ask me._

_Dejan wraps his arm around Mo’s shoulders and glares at the guy. He doesn’t like his face. No—he hates his face. Fuck off, he says._

_The guy raises his eyebrows. Say that again? I couldn’t hear you. It is very loud in here._

_Oh, I will say it with great pleasure. Fuck off._

_Dej...says Mo. His voice is so soft, someone who didn’t know him the way Dejan did wouldn’t be able to hear him. You promised to be good._

_He whispers in Dejan’s ear. If you are still angry later I’ll—I’ll let you hit me._

_This should send a terrible thrill through Dejan, as it usually does, because he’s fucked-up even when he’s trying to be good, that’s the thing, he’s just...fucked-up. And he should focus on the thought of what Mo wants to do for him._

_Just who are you that you think you can tell me to fuck off? The man is in his face. Who are you anyway? He looks at the mugs and bottles on the table. Some drunk?_

_One of the man’s friends grabs his arm. Sergio… he says, and then something in Spanish. Dejan can only speak a few words of Spanish, but he guesses this Sergio’s friend is telling him to back off. It’s too late, though. It’s too late._

_Dejan stands up. The table lurches as he bumps it, and ale spills out and onto the sticky wood of the table._

_No one else is paying attention to them. It’s not like Dejan, or this fucking waste of life, this Sergio, is the only sailor who’s ever started a fight here._

_He’s had enough to drink that he should be unsteady on his feet. But this is the moment that he knows has been coming. He’s always known._

_He’d have killed anyone who’d touched or hurt Davor._

_But Davor is gone, and there are still people he needs to protect._

_And he, Dejan Lovren, has never been steadier in his life._

_I will give you five seconds to get away from him, and from me, he says. I will even count for you in case you’re too stupid of a piece of shit to count to five. One—two—_

_And then he’s sent backwards, nearly knocking Milly and Robbo off their seats. His face stings and his cheekbone aches. He blinks and Sergio is rubbing his knuckles._

_Oh, you thought you could hit me, is that it? Sergio says. You think you can hit me and win? He smirks. Dejan thinks of smashing a bottle on the table and using that as his weapon, but no, he wants to feel everything. Wants to feel himself becoming a protector at last. This is it, this is it. Did God deliver him this moment, atoning for His own sins?_

_Dejan’s heart is beating so fast that his head spins. Standing up he’s a little taller than Sergio. Good. Perfect. He raises his arm, his fist clenched._

_And then his arm is by his side again. It takes him a moment to realize that Mo’s pulled it down._

_Dej. You promised us all. You promised Captain Klopp, you promised everyone, Dej, and me. We’ll go to our room and forget all of this, come on, Dej._

_Sergio laughs. What are you talking about, you don’t want him to fight me like a man? Stay out of this, little boy._

_This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Now Mo’s in Sergio’s face. You called me what? Say it again. You called me ‘little boy?’ I want to hear you say it again._

_Mo! Dejan calls over the noise in the pub. Stay away from him, let me—_

_Get out of the way! Sergio says to Mo, and he grabs Mo’s arm and pulls him to the side._

_He grabs wrong. He pulls too hard. Something. Mo screams; it’s a sound Dejan’s never heard before and he thinks he might hear it in his head for the rest of his life. He’s on the floor, clutching his shoulder, it looks twisted somehow, it looks wrong, and his face—there’s pain all over his beautiful face._

_The guys from the Anfield explode behind Dejan. Jesus, man. What the hell? What the fucking hell have you done to him?_

_Now the place is quiet for one moment, a moment that makes Dejan’s blood cold and then boil hot again._

_It’s almost like fucking, how good it feels when his fist meets Sergio’s face. And when his other hand finds its way into Sergio’s long, reddish hair and shoves him face-first into the table._

_Sergio looks up, blood running from his nostrils and his face twisted with pain, and he swings at Dejan. Dejan ducks. Sergio misses._

_Hey! Outside, I won’t have this happening in here. It’s the man who runs the place. You two want to kill each other, do it outside._

_Yeah? You want to go outside? Sergio says to Dejan._

_Dejan pauses and Sergio punches him square in the mouth. He feels his lip split._

_You piece of shit, you fucking piece of shit—But Sergio is running for the door. Dejan has to follow. But before he does, he turns to Mo and Mo is still on the floor, moaning, his face full of pain and sadness and—anger? There’s anger on his face, too. Sergio’s made him angry. He can’t win this._

_It’s dark outside—must be a new moon—and windy and crisp. Dejan lands a few good punches. There’s drops of blood on Sergio’s white clothes. This pleases Dejan quite a bit._

_Try harder, he taunts. You think I can’t handle you? You have no idea—Dejan Lovren can handle anyone. And he pounds on his own chest, his fists meeting his pounding heart. Let’s go. Let’s go._

_Sergio throws a punch, but it feels like he’s just doing this for fun at this point, while Dejan is doing this because he has to. He’s meant to. It’s his duty. It’s different._

_Dejan gets Sergio up against the wall of the pub, his hand around his neck._

_You are...There is something fucking wrong with you, Sergio says through bloody lips, his voice hoarse but his smile somehow big. God made a mistake on you, huh. Too bad._

_Dejan’s hands move. They move into Sergio’s long hair and get a good grip and pound his face into the wall. Over and over again they do it. It feels like nothing. It’s easy. He hardly thinks about what’s happening. He just feels his arms moving, and then, suddenly, Sergio limp in his arms. Dejan snaps out of it. He lets the guy drop to the ground._

_And he doesn’t move. His face is...not pretty and even in the dark of the new moon Dejan can see the blood on the ground. And he doesn’t move._

_Dej, run. It’s Hendo. How’d he get out here? Why is there a whole crowd out here? It looks like half the pub’s come out to watch the fight._

_Dej. You gotta get the fuck away from this, Hendo hisses._

_And this is the moment that he knows has been coming. He’s always known._

_He turns his back and runs away from everything._

_He runs through the dark, winding streets in the direction of port. He thinks he hears footsteps behind him but he can’t tell if it’s real. Could be, or they could be just his heartbeat or the blood that feels like it’s pounding in his head._

_At one point he hears people yelling in Spanish. It’s getting misty outside and he can’t tell where sounds are coming from. Every noise he hears feels like it’s circling him, slowing him down. He ducks into an alley and crawls behind a coal bin—he’s hearing it again. So he waits, trying to get his heart to slow, but he just keeps thinking of Sergio’s still body and the blood, all of the blood._

_He hears more Spanish, and then it fades into the fog. And then he runs._

_He can’t ever set foot on the Anfield again. But he needs a place to go._

_In the grey morning light he sees a ship flying a familiar flag. The flag of the land where he was born._

_It’s a sign. It’s got to be a sign. God is showing him that little bit of good that was once in him is worth saving. That’s what this is, right? After all of this?_

_There’s a man standing there on the dock, tall and strong, with his arms folded across his chest and a head of thick, dark hair. This must be the captain._

_Aboard the Anfield Dejan speaks English. Learning other languages and joking and fucking in them comes easy to a man who loves to talk. But he slips into his mother tongue when talking to the dark-haired man, and it feels...good._

_Well, first he hides his torn-up knuckles underneath the hems of his sweater sleeves. He’s probably got a black eye or two, and God knows what else, but it’s not too light out. Maybe the man just won’t notice._

_Good morning, sir. Are you the captain of this ship?_

_Yes. He can tell the man is surprised to hear Croatian, but in Hamburg anything is possible, including what he’s just done. And you are?_

_Lovren, sir. Dejan. Lovren. He waits for a reaction, but gets none. I was hoping you need another man on board._

_The captain’s stare is blank, but somehow warm. Dejan looks at the ship. VATRENI, it says on the side. Vatreni. He likes it._

_You won’t regret having me, he continues. I’m strong. I learn quick and I’ll do anything you ask. I can get by in English and German and French._

_Dejan is begging this man. He is not one to beg. But it’s settling in. He just might have beaten a man to death. And it was satisfying. He thinks he’d do it again. But he just might have beaten a man to death._

_And I get along with everyone, he adds._

_The captain snorts. Oh, you do? Some of my men were talking. There was a fight down at one of the pubs. One of the men in the fight got beaten to a bloody pulp. They’re not sure if he lived. His eyes sweep over Dejan’s face. Show me your hands._

_Uh, what? Sir. What, sir?_

_Hold out your hands. The captain holds his hands out in front of him and spreads his fingers wide. Like this. Take them out of those sleeves so I can see them._

_The captain looks at the state of Dejan’s hands, and then back up at him. Dejan doesn’t know what’s about to happen. He’s prepared to run again. Maybe he’ll have to go to China. Or Egypt. Or Siberia. But the captain’s eyes still have that warmth in them._

_I’m Captain Dalić. And you’re Croatian. You’re our blood, and your blood is the sea. We’re en route to Saint Petersburg, and I could use more help._

_But if you ever, ever get the idea it’s alright to do that to another man—unless it’s in your self-defense—Captain Dalić draws his finger across his throat. I run a tight ship of good men. Do you understand?_

_Yes, sir. I understand._

_Very good. He jerks his head toward the gangplank. Well, we have no time to waste here. Go ask for Luka. He’ll tell you what you need to know. And he won’t ask any questions about....He stares back down at Dejan’s hands._

_Dejan nods._

_This is your home for now, Dejan. Welcome aboard the Vatreni._

_He pats Dejan on the back, and Dejan looks toward where he thinks the Anfield is docked. He thinks about Captain Klopp and Robbo’s Scottish jokes and Ox and Sadio and...and Mo, and how no matter what else he remembers he’s going to have that memory of Mo’s face full of pain and sadness and anger. Anger...at him. For breaking his promise again. Again. Again._

_It all had been a dream, and he’d woken himself up._

_Thank you, Captain Dalić, sir. Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, sorry to Sergio! I like him, I promise, but you know. 😉


	6. VI

Dejan takes no issue with sucking cock. There are men like him—strong men who fight and can’t be pushed around—who think it makes them seem weak. They must never have made a man come apart with just their mouth, Dejan thinks. There’s not much more powerful than that.

And because of all this tonight he can’t sleep. His desert treasure snores softly in his ear, but his jaw—it’s fucking dumb, really—aches from how hard and how many times he sucked Mo off tonight. A man’s got to make up for lost time, right? He did it till Mo had to beg him to stop. That’s devotion. Maybe it is love. 

The sweet voice sounds again. It’s singing a different song, one he doesn’t recognize, but it’s clearly from home, wherever that is. The land where he was born hasn’t felt like home for a long time now, but the song makes him remember, somehow, what it was like to have one. 

The whole room smells briny, now, and Dejan feels the heaviness of salty air on his cheeks even though he’s left the window closed tonight. It could put him back to sleep. But he has a feeling about this voice and he’s ready to prove himself right. He opens his eyes to see a figure dressed in black kneeling by the bed.

“Šime,” Dejan hisses. “How’d you get in here?” He swears he heard nothing. He’s been listening. And Mo‘s snores are delicate things, not enough to hide footsteps. 

“Through the door, just like you did.”

“I swear I will fucking...Why are you in here?” And yet Dejan is a little pleased with himself, because he was _right._

“To look at you. I know. I know how that sounds, but…You’re the most handsome sailor I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen many.”

Dejan speaks from the truest place in his heart that he can find. “And you’re the most beautiful, Šime.”

The smile spreads across Šime’s face, slow and warm. 

“Will you sing for me again, beautiful Šime?”

Šime’s smile is gone fast. “N-no. I shouldn’t tonight, I—”

“What do you mean? I’m only asking you to sing. You have the most beautiful voice. Surely you make the angels jealous.”

If this line—and it’s true, every word of it—doesn’t get Šime to stay, Dejan will be surprised. 

And it doesn't. Šime jumps to his feet, looking almost scared. “I should—I have to go. I’ll see you again, soon.”

He stumbles through the door and now Dejan hears the footsteps—the sound of Šime’s feet pounding against the creaking hallway floor. 

_What the fuck did I do?_ Dejan thinks. _What did the fuck did I say to make him—I took him for food and we held hands and he talked about my balls—What the fuck just happened?_

_There’s something wrong about my whole life. Anita put a curse on me._

_I should have—should have saved Davor somehow. It must be my fault that he died._

_I don’t know how it could be my fucking fault, but it must be._

_I’m surprised Mo is even here right now—_

He hears a sound in his head, in his ears, in his head, who knows where the fuck it’s coming from. It’s like a bell clanging, over and over and over. He tugs at Mo’s curls to wake him up.

“Dej? You couldn’t find a better way to do that?”

“Mo. Do you love me? Do you love me?”

“Dej. You need to be calm, Dej, please—Why did you wake me up? Why is your heart beating so fast?”

It is. It’s pounding so hard Dejan feels sick to his stomach, like the first time his boots met the salt-stained deck of the _Dinamo_ years ago. “Oh, Mo,” he says. “I had a nightmare. I had a fucking nightmare, can you believe it? Me?”

“You? I can believe it,” Mo says, and he takes Dejan’s hand. “Was it about...? You know what I mean.”

“No. God, no. It was—There was a strange man in here, watching me, and—I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering where the spicy Šejan content is, Keep It In Your Pants, it's coming in the next chapter 😉
> 
> What did you think? Kudos and comments would make me so happy!
> 
> As always, you can follow me on [insta](https://www.instagram.com/griziwave/) or [tumblr](http://theboywiththedejantattoo.tumblr.com)


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little špicy Šejan content for you, dear readers...And more to come in future chapters, of course.

Dejan doesn’t see Šime anywhere the next day—not in the pub, not on the street, not in church. Come to think of it, he doesn’t see anyone else from the _Neroverdi,_ either, though he’s rather glad of that. He doesn’t like the way his hair stands on end like a beast’s when he spots them around. Šime, though. Dejan doesn’t know _what_ he’d done last night to upset him, but he has the feeling he’ll never see the strange, beautiful man again. Because that’s what his life is. One fucking curse after another.

He hears the ghost of Sergio in his head like he does, sometimes. _God made a mistake on you, huh. Too bad._

So he downs a pint or two of ale and meets Ivan and Luka and Čarli and Domo for bowls of stew and fresh, warm bread, and Domo’s learned some magic tricks from the illusionist in the dark, old shop just around the corner so he’s showing off and Luka drinks and drinks until he begins snuggling up under Ivan’s armpit and giggling and Ivan doesn’t seem too mad about it, and Dejan tries to let this all in, let it feel warm the way the sun feels out on the open ocean. This is family, this is home. He has a family, he has a home. And so what if he doesn’t have Šime?

He eats and drinks and laughs till he misses Mo and his sweet voice and soft hair. And his little hole, too, if he’s being honest. And that.

So he goes back, finds him, drags him up the stairs. Fucks his little prince till he falls asleep drooling in Dejan’s arms. He won’t think of Šime. He won’t think of Šime.

But no. There’s something in the air, he’s feeling it. The hairs on his arms stand on end again. The curtains fill up like sails in the wind, reaching out into the room like ghostly fingers. And Dejan feels it even though he can’t hear anything but the wind. There’s something coming. Some _one_ coming.

Dejan rolls onto his other side facing away from Mo and pulls the blanket tight around his bare skin—the room’s gotten icy cold—watching the door with his eyes open just a crack.

The door opens.

Šime walks carefully to Dejan’s side and kneels down by his head without making a sound. He takes a breath that shakes. Dejan thinks of Davor and the rattle in his chest until Šime begins to sing. 

_You are as rosy as an orange tree..._ he murmurs, and Dejan feels something warm spreading through his chest. He feels it like flames, the way they crackle and dart across dry wood, creeping into his stomach and lower still. He opens his eyes without wanting to. His body won’t let them stay shut.

Šime stops and snorts and runs his finger along the curve of Dejan’s ear. The sparks of heat follow along, rushing upward. “I already knew you were awake.”

“Fuck you, you little shit.” Dejan gives him his widest smile. “No you didn’t.”

“You should have figured it out by now, Dejan,” Šime whispers. “Of course I knew you were waiting for me. I am different.”

And Dejan grabs a fistful of dark curls and pulls their faces together for a kiss.

It’s a kiss like he’s never felt before. It makes his chest feel crushed, like he’s drowning. The lips on his are soft and they have a taste to them. They taste like—like he’ll inhale an entire ocean if he opens his mouth enough.

Šime looks lost when Dejan stops for air. He looks surprised, maybe. His eyes, usually so tired-looking, are wide open.

“Dejan…” he says, touching his lips as though to check to see if this was all real. “You kissed me so nicely.”

“Of—of course I did,” Dejan said. He could give the kind of answer that’s always first off his tongue. _Why does that surprise you, huh?_

But it’s like he’s speaking from a different part of him. “You deserve it, you know, to be kissed like that.” 

“Dejan,” Šime sighs. “You deserve…you deserve so much _more_ than that.”

“Oh, I do, do I? What do I—” Šime pulls the blanket down fast, sudden, and his eyes widen at the sight of Dejan naked. Dejan’s cock stirs and pulses. He’s already come three times tonight but he’s feeling ready all over again.

“You like it, don’t you, Šime?”

Šime swallows. He nods. “It’s quite big.”

Well, at least God’s blessed him in some ways. “Works well, too.”

“I figured, from how hard your friend is sleeping.”

Šime runs his fingers through his messy curls. He licks his lip. Dejan takes his cock in his fists and pumps it, watching Šime watch him. "Well?” he asks, watching the little tip of Šime’s tongue flick back and forth, back and forth. It’s like he’s at one of those hypnotists. “ _Well?”_ he asks. God, Šime is a tease and it’s torture. “Look at me, look at this. Don’t you want it?”

Šime leans forward and slides his hand between Dejan’s thighs—it’s so cold but feels so nice—and then wraps his lips around Dejan’s balls. Dejan feels his tongue swirl over them, and Šime sighs, little puffs of air coming out of him and tickling Dejan’s skin.

“Fuck…” Dejan sighs back, because when’s the last time anyone’s paid so much attention to his balls? “Šime…”

Šime leans back, his mouth open, already panting just a little, and then he’s swallowing Dejan’s cock whole, so far down that Dejan’s fully hard instantly. Šime doesn’t even choke. His eyes are smiling. And he gets right to work, slowly letting Dejan’s cock slide out of his mouth, trailing his tongue over the hot, pulsing vein, and then sucking him back in again so fast Dejan can’t even breathe. Šime does it again, and again and again, humming as he does in a voice as sweet as his singing.

“Šime, God, how many men have you sucked off?” Dejan whispers.

Šime pulls back with a slurp. His lips are wet and his eyes are narrow from wanting. “Don’t remember,” he says. He winks. “Lots of them.”

Dejan grabs a handful of Šime’s hair and begins fucking into the sweet, warm, hot mouth. Šime is trying to use his tongue, but Dejan’s moving too fast, using Šime’s mouth hard, his little strangled noises urging him to go harder, harder, harder. And harder still. He thinks he hears Šime singing, but that can’t be fucking real because Šime’s mouth is busy. But the sound is in his head, filling his ears, swirling around him, lifting him up.

He’s so close. He’s sweating and jolts of pleasure are rocking him, making his toes curl and fingers tug harder at Šime’s hair. He’s biting his lip so he doesn’t wake up Mo and then suddenly he’s losing control, managing to choke out “You’re going to swallow for me, pretty Šime,” before he comes down Šime’s throat harder than he can ever remember doing before. He tastes the salty bite of blood on his lips and swallows his moans. This only makes him twitch harder into Šime’s mouth. The world is turning black.

And then Šime’s hand rests gently on Dejan’s thigh again, steadying him like an anchor. He lets Dejan’s cock fall from his mouth and smiles at him, shakily but bright.

He kisses Dejan with his wet and sticky lips and Dejan tastes himself on Šime’s tongue. In the corners of Šime’s mouth. He loves this proof of what Šime’s just done and doesn’t want to stop tasting. He closes his eyes and suddenly hears waves, waves crashing and roaring over rocks. He opens them again and the sound is gone. Šime is still smiling. His teeth are too white in the near-darkness. He wipes his mouth.

“Thank you for your beautiful cock, Dejan,” he whispers in his sweet voice. “You were right, it does work well. I will see you soon.”

Dejan feels like he can’t talk. Like he doesn’t know what to say, or doesn’t have enough air in his chest to say it. Šime gets up. He wobbles when he walks like he’s not used to his own legs. 

Only when he’s closed the door does Dejan feel like he can breathe again. He’s covered in sweat and fuck, the way Šime made him feel…

He doesn’t turn back around. He drifts off to sleep still facing the door. Maybe Šime will come back tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos would make my ~~day~~ my entire life!


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has lots of cameo appearances (lbr, lowkey my favorite part of writing this fic), of particular note a brief mention of the fake 19th century version of the Domagoj Vida/Artem Dzyuba World Cup drama. No Šime in this one—he’s still elusive—but fear not, fans of our beautiful, mysterious sailor, he’s in pretty much every chapter in the back half of this fic.

Instead, the rain arrives. It pounds against the windows, pounds harder against the roof that’s right over Dejan’s head, and the air grows the kind of clammy that sinks into a man’s bones. Mo wakes up shivering. Dejan rolls him onto his stomach and spreads out on top of him and helps his beautiful, splendid desert jewel work up such a sweat that he says he’ll never be cold again.

Dejan doesn’t see Šime that morning. He doesn’t see anyone from the _Neroverdi_ , for that matter, even though their ship’s still docked by the _Anfield_ . Dejan doesn’t like seeing them, that’s for sure. But he likes _not_ seeing them even less. He wants to know what the hell they’re up to—what exactly they are hiding. They _bother_ him and it’s sank into his bones even deeper than the weight of the storm above them.

So he asks Luka if he doesn’t mind doing a certain type of exploration, and he’s growing restless as the barometer drops, in need of something new, so he spends the first night of rain inside a beautiful Persian who’s new in town. He’s got thick, dark hair and a teasing laugh. Dejan loves that kind of hair on his boys—so beautiful in his tanned, fucked-up hands, so fun to pull. His name’s Sardar. Dejan’s never heard the name before. _It means chief,_ Sardar explained. _Commander, maybe._ Dejan likes this. He’s never come down a _commander’s_ throat before, and if he hadn’t just had the wonder of Šime’s mouth last night, he probably would have been even more thrilled about it.

But he’s not sure if anything will ever be able to come close to getting sucked off by Šime, and it was just one time. _Just one time._

It’s raining even harder the next day. The streets are muddy, flooded, trash swirling by like fish. Water pours from the eaves of the buildings like the waterfalls Dejan’s heard many a tale about but never seen for himself. 

Captain Dalić gathers them again. _Well, we won’t be leaving port anytime soon,_ he says. _Dangerous weather, and our Vatreni’s sprung some leaks besides. Make yourself comfortable here._

“Hey, Dejan,” Ivan murmurs as the _Vatreni_ ’s crew turns away, all muttering and cursing. Most of Dejan’s friends have grown uncomfortable in this rainy city. They all want the sameness of the ocean, the storms you can see coming. They don’t have his strange Šime to anchor them to the long, windy days and nights. _His?_ His. “Luka and I went down to take a look at the _Neroverdi,_ last night, like you asked.”

“Snuck on board, actually.” Luka grins, and the familiar sight of his long, crooked front teeth makes Dejan feel calm. No matter what happens to him here, his friends are the same as they always are. 

“Boldest of any of us,” Dejan says, fondly. Luka’s small and thin and unexpectedly strong and he can climb up any rope, onto any ship, without anyone noticing. He’s stolen things that way, some things the _Vatreni_ needed and some it didn’t, but they aren’t supposed to talk about it. “Well? What did you two see?”

“Did Luka see, you mean.” Ivan grins. “He did it alone. I waited down on the pier with my knife. In case he needed protection.” He pats Luka’s tangled hair with such care that Dejan wonders, for a second, if all of his talk about men not fucking other men is just...talk.

“Stop it, Ivan.” Luka smacks his wrist, but not hard enough to move Ivan’s hand. 

“But I knew he wouldn’t need protection.”

“You’re about to need it from _me_.” Luka smacks Ivan harder. They remind Dejan of how he and Davor used to be. He wishes they’d stop. 

“Alright, enough.” Dejan reaches in and shoves Ivan’s hand away from Luka’s hair. “Am I the only adult here or what? What did you see?”

“I saw a bunch of them. More than who we’ve seen around, I suppose the rest of them go somewhere else to drink,” Luka says. “And you were right, Dejan. There’s something wrong with how they all look.”

“Was my—Was Šime there?”

“Sure was,” Luka says. “The fellow’s less weird-looking than the others, I’ll give you that. Your taste isn’t bad.”

Dejan punches Luka’s shoulder. “Get on with it, come on.”

“Of course I couldn’t hear them, but they had that look about them, you know? Like they were planning something. And then they started coming out of the cabin, so I hid and watched.”

“And then they jumped into the water and didn’t come out. Luka told me,” Ivan blurts out. 

“What do you mean, like they went for a swim?”

“You would think,” Luka says. “But no. I didn’t hear anyone swimming. And they never came back.”

“What do you mean?” Dejan repeats.

“I mean I was hiding on that deck a _long_ fucking time, Dejan, and they just...never came back. Why are we standing out here, anyway? I’m cold, let’s go in.”

Ivan wraps his arm around Luka. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“That’s not the _problem,_ Ivan, fuck. It’s raining. We need a _roof_.” And they walk off, arguing, leaving Dejan standing there feeling a little lost.

They look back after a few moments. “You coming or not?” Luka calls. They’re his home. His friends, his home. He should not feel this lost after hearing Luka’s story. But he just doesn’t understand it. What were the men from the _Neroverdi_ planning? Why didn’t they come back?

Why the _fuck_ is his Šime with people like this, anyway? He won’t keep thinking about being cursed. He won’t, he can’t. It has to stop.

He’s a strong man, he is, but the rain has soaked through his shirt and it’s making him shiver like Mo was doing earlier this morning. Time to get away from all this.

“I’m coming!” Dejan calls back. “You two are too busy being in love to wait for me, huh?”

“Maybe if you thanked me for my help I’d wait,” Luka says, and Dejan grins at him and breaks into a run, chasing the two of them all the way to the nearest inn.

*

It takes him a while to get back to his preferred pub that night. Domo had gotten into a fight about God only knew what and had his ass kicked well and good by who he described through bloody lips as a _Russian who was a giant, I swear he was a giant, he was so fucking tall…_ and Luka had to use every trick in his book to keep Dejan and Čarli and Mario from trying to hunt the guy down. Dejan wouldn’t mind fighting a giant, and Čarli did speak some Russian, after all. But it worked. There was something magical about Luka, who could help Ivan clean Domo up while calming his fiery friends down without breaking a sweat. 

Dejan loves his friends. He really, really does. He loves them so much that he’s stopped thinking about the guys from the _Neroverdi._

He finally stomps back into his pub after Luka’s convinced him that if Dejan tried to go after any Russians, Luka would kill him before Captain Dalić even got the chance. He’s in the mood for a hearty drink and a heartier fuck—he’ll find Mo, or maybe that Sardar again. 

He sees Sardar in the dim light at the back of the room, sitting with a guy who has a Russian look to him, and his shoulders are broad and he sure looks tall and _oh fuck, it’s him—_ but it’s then that he realizes how strangely quiet the pub is. There’s no music playing, and everyone’s voices are much too hushed. He doesn’t see any of the guys from the _Neroverdi._ And he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. 

Thank God, the _Anfield_ crew is all here. Dejan strides over, jostles Xherdan on his stool so there’s a bit of room for him to sit down, and takes a big swig of Trent’s ale. 

“Hey, Dej, get your own!”

“You’re too young to be drinking all that. You don’t want to turn out like me, yeah?” Dejan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins. He’s not in the mood for whatever’s happening in here tonight, and he aims to change it. “So what’s gone on in here? Why are we all sitting around like someone’s died?”

“Someone _has_ died, Dej,” Hendo says. 

“Well, at least I had nothing to do with it this time, right?” Dejan laughs at his own joke, but the guys all look so uneasy. “Come on, what the fuck is going on?”

“A body washed up, someone found it about an hour ago,” Hendo continues. “About near passed out when he did, as we heard it. He’s right there. Dybala’s his name. Poor lad, look at him.”

Dejan follows Hendo’s pointing finger to a kid sitting wrapped up in a blanket. His face is pretty enough, but it looks frozen in fear. Dejan wonders what that feels like. Has he ever been that afraid? Maybe for a second, that first night of Šime coming into his room. But it’s hard to remember that now. Imagine, being afraid of beautiful Šime. 

“He’s never seen a body before?” _I should have seen Davor’s, I should have looked down on him in his coffin and told him I loved him. I should have been there—_ He’s not had enough to drink, and he can’t stand it, not tonight with the air so heavy it’s nearly making the hair on his arms stand on end. He reaches for Trent’s ale again, but Trent is fast and pulls it away. 

“I said, get your _own,_ Dej.”

“It’s not that it was _dead_ that’s bothered the poor thing so much,” Robbo blurts out. “I can tell you because I saw it myself. There was a fuss when he found the poor man on the rocks, and I went to see what was happening.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s one of that Dybala kid’s friends, apparently. A Portuguese fellow, one of the officers on his ship.”

“ _And?”_

“His face was all bitten up. Bitten off, in parts. His hands, too, his chest, his--He was just destroyed, Dej, you don’t want to know more details, I promise. I feel sick just telling the story.”

“I _do_ want to know more details, Robbo.”

“The thing is,” Hendo cuts in before Robbo can speak again. “We know it’s not shark season around here, and I can’t think of any other sea creature that would leave those marks. Kill that way. Anyone else?

No one can. Dejan can’t, either, and it’s just so quiet, so dead in the place, that he feels his mind start _doing_ something. He’s thinking about something, but he can’t tell what. 

“Could have been a person, right?” Sadio asks. “With a knife, maybe. Someone who was very angry.”

“He had bite marks, Sadio, I’ll swear it on my mum’s life.”

“You look off, Dej,” Milly says. “What’s going on?”

“He doesn’t like the idea that he can’t go off and give a few good punches to whoever killed the sailor,” Virg says. “Just joking, Dej! I'm just joking!”

Dejan hardly hears him. He mumbles something and gets up fast. Fuck this, fuck this whole thing about a shark that wasn’t a shark. Since when do his friends care so much about someone they never even met? Either the crew of the _Anfield_ has changed somehow, or he has. 

He walks all the way over to Sardar, who doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of this, and makes him introduce him to his Russian giant.

“He doesn’t speak English,” Sardar explains. 

“So then you talk to him. Be the commander, Commander Sardar. Tell him I want you both tonight. And tell him never to fuck with my friend again. Say exactly that.”

The Russian giant—Artem is his name—laughs and his blue eyes glimmer in the dim light and the heavy air. Dejan isn't sure what part of it he’s laughing at, but he does know these two couldn’t give one single fuck about a chewed-up Portuguese sailor, so they’ll probably be a lot of fun tonight. Fuck, he just wants to have _fun._

And they are, they are.

But after their fun he can’t sleep, even with Sardar’s arm around his waist and the Russian’s broad chest pressed protectively against his own. That feeling of his mind churning and churning is keeping him awake and making his palms sweat.

 _They had that look about them, you know? Like they were planning something._ Luka’s voice echoes in his head. 

_And then they jumped into the water and didn’t come out. Luka told me._ Each remembered word is pounding against his skull. They _hurt._

_I didn’t hear anyone swimming. And they never came back._

Dejan’s head is pounding by now. He covers his ears, elbowing Artem in the chest as he does. The big guy snorts, but he doesn’ t wake up. Dejan half-wishes he would. His friends’ words are playing over and over in his head. He’s scared. He’s scared like fucking Dybala downstairs. The guys from the _Neroverdi._ Not Šime, but some of the others. They have teeth like sharks. Pointed teeth, teeth that don’t belong in a human mouth. And last night they jumped into the water and didn’t come out. _Luka told me._

He lies so still his muscles ache. His ears strain, listening for Šime. _God, if You are just, please let_ _Ši_ _me read my mind. Let my_ _Š_ _ime come and sing his sweet songs for me, please._

Not a thing happens. What did he expect? He closes his eyes though he doesn’t feel the slightest bit tired. If he leaves them open, he might see pointed teeth gleaming in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are slowly getting weirder in our unnamed European port city. Keep in mind that major character death warning—it still hasn't happened yet.
> 
> Kudos and comments would make my day!


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